


The King Is Dead

by taichara



Category: Saint Seiya
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-29
Updated: 2014-08-29
Packaged: 2018-02-15 08:08:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2221767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taichara/pseuds/taichara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Faced with the unthinkable, Saga has to make a decision -- after he's dealt with the horror lying at his feet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The King Is Dead

**Author's Note:**

> _prompt: author's choice, author's choice, bloodstained clothes_

Mocking laughter, deep and wild, rings through him even as the world comes rushing back in; and Saga knows before the haze lifts from his vision what has happened. It’s all over, his control shattered into countless shards of darkness and desire – one last crack in his resolve, now broken beyond repair by his mad twin, his shadow …

The haze lifts and horrors are revealed, with the gleaming gold and snow-white of Gemini stained death-crimson by the life’s blood of the Holy Father who lies crumpled at his feet, dead by his hands.

There is a clatter of glittering sharpness; the knife, falling from a hand gone suddenly numb. Saga ignores it. His thoughts are racing, racing like his heart (why can’t he simply collapse here, collapse and end it, Kanon will – but Kanon is already lost, already sacrificed) as he tries to comprehend what that black shadow, what _he_ , has done.

Sanctuary must not know. The Holy War is approaching; Sanctuary must be prepared. It cannot be without leadership. For a breath Saga wonders why he did not think first of Aioros, but the darkling laughter deep within tells him all he needs to know. 

No, he will deal with – that – later. First there is the matter of the Holy Father.

With shaking hands, he kneels, reaches out to ease the crumpled figure’s twisted pose, and as he does so his hair trails along the dark stone of Star Hill’s courtyard, wicks up the blood, palest gold turning sickly rot-red.

Shion’s face is a mask of weariness, of sorrow; not a trace of anger, nor sign of disappointment, of betrayal, in the aged inhuman features. Only regret, and a gentle sadness in the empty eyes.

It is too much.

With a soul-shattering howl Saga scoops Shion to himself, clutches the Holy Father in a desperate, mad embrace as he, just as desperately, tries to deny his own act of murder. But there is no avoiding the cold proof cradled limply in his arms. He has done it, done the unthinkable.

Half the night passes before he moves again. The dark will cover his actions still, he hopes, if only he can be finished before the sun rises … Blood flakes from the dull, stained plates of Gemini as he climbs slowly to his feet once more, Shion a precious burden in his arms, and his hair leaves behind trails of coil-marks on the bloodstained stone of Star Hill’s pinnacle, like imprints of ragged silk.

No one save the Holy Father, and those to whom he grants the honour, may scale the star-watcher’s peak – where better to lay his father-teacher-victim out in what pitiful honours his bloodstained touch may grant?

Crossing the tiny courtyard, Saga bears his burden into the nest of chambers crowning the Hill. The star-altar becomes the Holy Father’s bier; with wine and spring-water and his own hot tears Saga cleanses away the blood, arrays the still cold form as if sleeping, smoothes the sorrowed face, strokes closed the ancient eyes.

A race against time; against the dawn, against the darkling thing asserting himself inside once again. He needs to hurry.

The vestry, carved from the living stone of the Hill, supplies unblemished robes. Arrayed in state, stone grey mane of curling shag a dense corona across the altar, Shion shows not a sign of the mortal strike that brought him low.

For a long eternal moment Saga stands there, shivering, staring, snowy bloodstained velvets clutched limply in his hands.

Sanctuary will fall …

The dark thing laughs again, and his eyes spark.

No. He will atone – somehow – but none must know – the remaining Golds are so young still –

With a thought, Gemini is banished, the Cloth exploding away with a thin shriek like a wounded beast, and Saga does not hear the Twins’ wail of denial. He is too absorbed in drawing the scarlet-stained robes over his head, around his shoulders; in settling hems to the dark stones at his feet.

Let Shion sleep; let him rest there until the stars themselves shift from their orbits.

He walked away without a backward glance.

The Holy Father, anointed in blood; thy will be done.


End file.
